


A Stitch in Time

by Carenejeans



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Gen, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-11
Updated: 2011-04-11
Packaged: 2017-10-17 23:14:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carenejeans/pseuds/Carenejeans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fate of the Multiverse depends on Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Or so says the madman who appears in John's room in the middle of the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Stitch in Time

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Unovis for beta-reading and Tehomet for beta and Brit-picking.

John struggled awake, fighting his way out of the bedclothes, fending off an enemy attack. Adrenaline surged through his blood. He'd been holding his breath in his sleep. He took a lungful of air and let it out in a sob.

"Easy, Doctor Watson."

John's body tensed in a new way, bracing in defence. _Not_ a dream. There was someone in his room. The shabby hotel room was dark and full of shadows, not all of them physical. John glanced at the desk drawer, old dread and new fear warring in his gut.

"Your gun is out of reach," the voice was smooth, amiable. "But then, you don't keep it for protection." The intruder moved into a pale beam of light, which made John instinctively look towards the windows. Curtains drawn. Right. Maybe it was a dream after all. He knuckled his eyes and struggled to sit up.

"Who the hell are you?"

"This is generally not -- my area," said the man, looking around the room and pursing his lips. He sat gingerly on the edge of John's bed as if to minimise contact with it, his hands folded over the handle of his tightly furled umbrella. John frowned, irritated at the intruder's snobbiness despite the circumstances. He knew his present surroundings weren't exactly top-drawer, but he didn't have fleas, for God's sake. "But events have taken a serious turn. Very serious. Things are unraveling." He leaned towards John to underscore his point. "Badly."

"What are you doing here? What do you want?" John kicked his legs over the edge of the bed, resisting the temptation to kick at the intruder. Probably a bad idea. He breathed in. Stay calm. Wait for your moment--

The shadows shifted, and John realized there was another person in the room.

"Ah," said the man, beckoning. "Meet my assistant. 'Anthea.'"

John stared at 'Anthea' -- he could almost hear the quotation marks around her name -- who was absorbed in pressing tiny buttons on some sort of device that -- floated under her hands. She glanced up, gave him a brilliant smile, and went back to pecking at her device.

"Who--?" John tried again.

"My name is -- not important. But you may call me Mycroft. That's my name in this... iteration. Not that you'll remember," Mycroft said, as if to himself.

"Remember? Remember what?"

"My visit." Mycroft smiled. "I'm here to deliver a message and a warning."

John frowned. "How will I remember a message and a warning if I won't remember your visit?"

"Anthea will see to it," Mycroft said.

Anthea glanced up briefly and smiled again. John wondered if she really knew what he'd just said or if she just responded to her name. Or her 'name.'

"Why me?" John heard his voice going higher. "What have I done? You've got the wrong person. I'm not mixed up in any--" John stopped, at a loss. "You've made a mistake somehow. I'm not the man you're looking for."

Mycroft looked at him levelly. "John Watson. Army surgeon. Lately in Afghanistan, invalided out. Having some difficulty adjusting to civilian life. Your therapist thinks you have trust issues."

"I'm doing fine," John said shortly. "Wait-- how did you--?"

Mycroft was studying the room. "Fire her," he murmured absently. Then his dark eyes focused on John in a way that made John recoil inwardly. Outwardly, he straightened his shoulders.

"And you're in -- rather pressing -- need of a flat," Mycroft said. "Specifically, in need of a flatmate."

"And you're a what, a midnight flatmate-matching service?"

Mycroft laughed. The sound made the hair on John's neck rise. "In this instance, yes." His smile disappeared. "You and Sherlock _must_ meet."

"Sherlock?"

"Holmes," Mycroft said. "A great deal depends on you and Sherlock. More than you can ever imagine."

"Care to give me a shot at it?"

"We don't have time for me to go into Root Cause Analysis or causal chains, never mind the physics involved. You read a bit of science fiction and fantasy on occasion, Doctor Watson?"

"Why are you asking me?" John snapped.

Mycroft looked at him reprovingly, and John felt as though his knuckles had been rapped. "You're familiar with the phrase 'the Trousers of Time.'"

"The Trousers of--" John blinked. "Yes."

"That will be sufficient," Mycroft said briskly. "The multiverse -- you understand the multiverse."

"As fantasy or as reality?" John said drily.

"Reality, of course. A quite important segment, or constellation of segments, of the multiverse has been disrupted by a brilliant, but malevolent and devious criminal -- I suppose you'd call him a criminal mastermind."

"Right," John said. _I'm still dreaming,_ he told himself.

"And we -- that is to say, my Office -- have been able to pinpoint a brief instant in the space-time continuum during which the disruption can be averted, but only if certain events take place."

"I meet this Holmes person and move in with him?"

"Precisely." Mycroft made an expansive gesture. "Events follow from there which will affect the entire multiverse."

"If they go down the correct leg of the Trousers of Time."

Mycroft nodded as if to encourage a bright pupil.

"You're mad, of course," John said.

Mycroft smiled.

"All I ask, Doctor Watson, is that instead of--" he coughed. "Rather than acting upon your first impulse when you awaken tomorrow, I ask that you consider taking a walk."

"A walk -- instead of what, exactly?"

Mycroft was silent for a moment. "Your gun, Doctor Watson. It's still in the desk drawer."

John felt cold. "Yes."

Mycroft leaned towards him again. "Leave it there."

"That's it? Just get up tomorrow and -- take a walk?" _And don't shoot myself?_ John shuddered. Would he have? Had he already, in another time and place?

"Yes," Mycroft said, and stood. "Take a walk in the park, meet up with an old friend, who'll introduce you to Sherlock. It's crucial," he tapped the bed with his umbrella, "that you meet Sherlock at 221B Baker Street tomorrow evening. You'll meet me somewhat later, in my iteration in your timestream, and may I suggest you give me all possible assistance? I will need--"

"Sir," Anthea said firmly.

"Ah, well. I suppose that does cross a line." Mycroft smiled down at John. "Just meet Sherlock Holmes at Baker Street, and whatever happens after that -- is up to you."

"But--" John said.

Mycroft wagged a finger. "No _buts,_ Doctor Watson. We're all depending on you." He gave his umbrella a twirl and turned to go. "Anthea will -- set you up."

Anthea turned her brilliant smile on John and aimed her device in his direction. John stared at it and wished Mycroft didn't leave so many pauses in his sentences.

"Oh." Mycroft turned back. "One more thing. Just a bit of personal advice." He smiled, and his eyes seemed to twinkle in the dark. "The first time you feel the urge to kiss Sherlock, I heartily recommend that you do so." He glanced at Anthea, who shrugged. Mycroft nodded once at John. "Goodbye, Doctor Watson. For now. I do love these little chats of ours."

"Kiss--? Chats? Don't-- Wait, what are you doing?" John felt his eyes cross as Anthea touched the device to the bridge of his nose. The last thing he saw was her smile, fading Cheshire Cat-like. Then everything went black.

\----------

John struggled awake, fighting his way out of dreams of blood, chaos, death. He sat bolt upright, breathing raggedly as the images faded from his mind and the adrenaline from his blood. He fell back into the pillows and choked back sobs. What was the use? He couldn't live like this. He might as well -- He forced himself to get up, and sat on the edge of his bed in the gloom. He thought of his gun in the drawer. Who would care, if he was gone? Harry? A few men from his unit? Old friends from Barts?

 _Barts_. Some tiny impulse bloomed at the edges of his mind, some stray desire, some errant fancy. He sighed. He stood and went to the drawer. He looked at the gun. He pulled out his laptop. He stared at it for a long time. He went to see his therapist.

And he went for a walk.

  
 _The End -- The Beginning -- The Tumble Down the Right Leg?_   



End file.
